


Blank Page

by LadySouth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 13:21:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4223265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySouth/pseuds/LadySouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been fifty-seven weeks since The Reichenbach Fall. We all know during the time he was away he was chasing down Moriarty's network, figuring out how, and a brief idea of where he was. But nobody knows the details; nobody knows what countries, towns and cities he was in and what he was doing when he wasn't chasing The Network. Nobody knows how he was truly feeling towards the constant loneliness and his determination to get back to London... and John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock's Journal - Week 57

He didn't stare like he did remembering Irene. No; this feeling, this face, was something his brother had never seen before. Sherlock had developed a deep yearning for adventure, with his friend, whom he hadn't seen for almost six months now; more than that even. He didn’t care; he didn’t count, just listened to rain, his violin and the blur to his mind of Mycroft blaring at him to stop with the intentional action of the badly played tune. A silhouette fell across Sherlock's. Mycroft stared at the strings and fingers pressing up against them.

‘Even when Father died you didn't seem this grim.’ said Mycroft. Sherlock immediately rested the bow on the coffee table; turning white from the sun behind the clouds outside the window. ‘Father was never around,’ he said hastily, taking a seat on the green and gold speckled armchair. He placed two hands together. He was desperately trying to shield the fact that on the inside, he was fighting a hard battle that could not be won at that moment. Minutes passed as Mycroft stared at Sherlock’s' mask of relaxation. A small smile crept onto his face. ‘You miss him.’ Mycroft said, turning around once more as the kettle screamed. Sherlock’s eyes widened, filling with surprise and disgust, on the outside, that is.

‘You need to face it, Sherlock.’ Mycroft said, dipping his spoon into a sea of sugar, and then being flooded by the tea, forcing it to swirl around with its flavored hot water prison. He mixed. ‘Implying a relationship more than that of a companion is bold and childish.’ 

Mycroft smiled.

‘And incorrect.’ Sherlock said biting his lip. He settled his violin on the red leather chair that faced the fire place. Sherlock leaned back and relaxed, placing his hands together again from fiddling. Mycroft came to sit in the now glowing red seat across from Sherlock’s, face and hands were white, overtaken with the morning sunlight. There were again, moments of silence and a short sitting down of Mycroft; twirling the silverware in his tea cup. ‘Any leads?’ He asked. Sherlock led his eyes up to Mycroft's. ‘Moriarty paid Irene Adler in return of my spying and information; he met her in 08' from a then attempt of hers to seduce him…’ he went on and Mycroft listened intently. He knew Sherlock wasn't all grief while working on a case; this was good: the more days he works the less he’ll be away from John.

‘Mrs. Hudson?’

‘The person that was in Mrs. Hudson’s flat at the time of my fall was Norgad Reil, a private German assassin; specialising in martial arts. He was trained in Taiwan.’ Mycroft was like a focused grizzly bear monitoring her cubs from afar, and contemplating whether to attack or make a run. The deductions for the targets in Moriarty’s network took forty seconds each, amounting to a forty-minute lecture; which was accompanied by Mycroft’s excellence in manners by the occasional fake disinterest, by lolling his eyes to the side… because he once made vocal that action required ‘legwork’ and ‘physical effort’, which he looked any direction but forward to. As well as his confused look at the tea Mrs. Hudson prepared especially for him that was in fact green – and not his usual: Earl Grey. 

‘So, questions?’

Mycroft arose; towering over his little brother who had grown from his chalkboard in his bedroom on Sunday afternoons. Mycroft’s eyes were a thunder storm. Sherlock always knew when the clouds in his eyes gathered, rain ready to crash down into anything that stood below it. The rush; the excitement Mycroft hardly ever felt. He avoided this, yes, because shall he be known as anything but his little brother William Sherlock Scott Holmes. 

‘Where do we begin?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started this story two years ago and it has been sitting in my computer for that long. The other chapters need some tweaking but are mostly done. As am I with this story; I need to post it so I can continue working on another Fic which is in the works. If you stopped by to read this I am so much more than grateful because I've been editing, adding more, and trying to figure out ways it could be better for years so thank you. (My writing is better now than it was two years ago regarding character, plot and writing in general, but I have tweaked it so just keep that in mind) I would also like to thank Icy Sapphire15 and my (amazing) older sister, Milarca, for being beta's for this fic!


	2. Sherlock's Journal - Week 58

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He didn’t exactly know how far to go into conversation with her, but he did know what lines not to cross; the red ones. She had red hair, but had the same long, twisted mouth as John’s, matching blue eyes, guarded._

Ireland; the deepest you could go. Dublin was a few miles east, he was nestled in a tiny, itsy bisty little town, with a small population of nine-hundred and eighteen. One school, junior to sixth year, two dozen stables, a pub, two churches and thirteen shops all lined up to make, Edenderry. There was really nowhere he could go and nothing he could do, just wait for December to arrive.

He was waiting for time to pass. Yes, he extinguished the three, but he had to be careful. He couldn't go just yet. It is currently March and even though the sun shines most days, he felt the wind sweeping up against his cheeks and the occasional patter of rain on the muddy streets. The crusted windowsill gifted the shop with an early 1930's feel, along with his good coat, that glistened 1800’s. Rain aligned with the cracked, peeling paint, wrecking the pattern of narrowed perfection; a man's definition. He stared at the grim setting, and the trails of raindrops that scurried along the white-chipped windowsill.

His memories crept to his conscious and stormed.

_Sherlock are you okay?_

_Look up I’m on the rooftop._

‘Will lat be awl, sa?’ the Irish said abruptly.

The blur of memories was collected by Sherlock in an attempt to quickly hide his contemplating. He swiveled around in a motion similar enough to guess he was high on the meter. The Irish man's face was drenched in so much more than condone. ‘Yes, thank you,’ he said gathering the spare change. Feelings of cold wood from gliding his palm against the checkout desk slithered into his bloodstream. He stuck on a fake grin to his white face.  
Sherlock hustled over to the book section scanning the area for German proverb. ‘It’s raining.’ The Irish quietly announced. Sherlock ignored. _Getting drunk in the something-thousand pubs in all of Britain seems more pleasant to everyone who lives in this hope-shattered town and you chose to ramble about the goddamn bloody rain._ Sherlock thought.

‘The most exciting thing that's happened eha, that’s for sure,’ 

‘Yes, nothing... nothing going on,’ he continued.

‘Good day.’

‘What was your name again? You look framilah.’

‘Stevens.’ He stated, scrunching at floorboards from the ear-shattering sound from his heart thumping.

‘Hamish Stevens.’ He turned to flash the Irish a quick smile, no teeth, raised eyebrows. He showed him the happy-go-lucky person Hamish Stevens was.

‘You have a good day now.’ The Irish smiled.

‘You too, you too.’ He beamed. He fitted his hat securely just so that only a few curls snuck out.

He stumbled, exiting the shop and hopping down the creaky wooden steps, carrying the weighing paper bag. His face relaxed as if dropped eighty pounds to the ground. He walked solemnly and nervously. The gravel echoed a tune of falseness in his whole being; he had to keep quiet. He turned up the flaps on his coat, covering almost his whole face.

‘With your cheekbones and turning up the flaps on your coat to make you look cool.’  
_Don’t._ He thought furiously. His face turned warm and soft. _Don’t go there, anywhere but there._ But in a way… it was comforting.

‘Excuse me!’ shouted an English female voice.

‘Excuse me do you have the time?’ She said rustling her hands through her red leather bag. 

‘Yes, sorry, it's six past...’ He trailed off. _Brother, military. Ex-alcoholic. No pets. Divorced. Passive-aggressive. Used to have a case of insomnia. Non-smoker. Lived in Germany for two years. Moved out at nineteen._

‘One,’ He studied her puzzled expression. ‘Sorry, what is your name?’ 

‘Harriet.’ She stated.

‘Harriet Watson.’ 

He didn’t exactly know how far to go into conversation with her, but he did know what lines not to cross; the red ones. She had red hair, but had the same long, twisted mouth as John’s, matching blue eyes, guarded.

‘Yours?’ She asked, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

He fleetingly ran his tongue across his lips. 

‘Hae- Henry Stevens.’ He said, catching himself.

Though the character he slipped on, he genuinely felt a quiver of curiousness pass through his veins. How alike were they? What could he find out? Over the course of one week, Sherlock had already researched psychiatric patients who were veterans from the German army (regarding Norgad Reil) and how long the average patient would take to eventually commit suicide using normally the end of a toothbrush. From time to time he had seen Harriet, and in these surprisingly long conversations, mentions of John and their family life would bubble to the surface.

‘He was quiet, sometimes mischievous; around me, sneaky to go with it...’ Listening kindly to Harry, the sound faded as his mind drifted into an oblivion of knowledge and distraction. They've been split up for three months, getting a divorce.  
Wedding ring gone, marriage ended looked about four and a half years ago, less - judging by the tan line from the ring. Laugh lines fresh; happy for that matter, now he knows... Harriet left Clara.

_Clara left Harry for his drinking problem, or maybe he left her._

_And Harry is short for Harriet._

_Your sister!_

He remembered the leather seats, with John, that first night. He doesn't have anything left with him... no pictures, his journal is back at the flat. He wonders what happened to John; if he's still there, moved out. On. Sherlock corrected. All he holds onto is his memory, that's all he can hold onto... that's all he's allowed to hold onto. He may know him by heart, and can almost touch his coat sleeve with his memory lodged in his wide mind, but this is the closest he can get to him. She gave him a half smile and turned down the sidewalk; he followed. ‘Our Mum worked down at the mint factory, while our Dad was an office worker.’

A few beats of silence was accompanied by Sherlock’s boots on the muddy pavement. 

‘Talk to him much?’ Sherlock asked shyly, eyes focusing on the ground before him as they walked slowly along the foliage surrounded roads. 

‘John? Um, yes, actually, he… talked a lot about this one friend-slash-colleague.’ She laughed, remembering the nights she would choke back a giggle while John usually ranted about his drug habits and self-centre. ‘We never… almost ever used to talk until he started phoning me up again; not too long ago as it seems.’ 

‘What did he say... about the colleague.’ Sherlock said; pressing his lips together, hands snug in his pockets.

‘He was an annoying dick apparently.’ She smiled, again tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

A flutter tickled his stomach. The smile he gave wasn’t forced; probably the first real one he’s made since he left London. She continued and told him the sickening things the colleague did she thought he knew nothing about, but his curiosity grew otherwise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always wondered what John's sister looked like and what her back story might be; so I wrote it myself.
> 
> Thank you to Milarca and Icy Sapphire15 for being betas for this fic!


	3. Sherlock's Journal - Week 59

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You look sad._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, he is still in Edenderry. I'm sorry it's short; but then again... not really.
> 
> Thank you to Icy Sapphire15 for being a beta for this fic!

Night came; the rain was still showering like it was laughing in the face of the sun and people that wanted it. The room glowed white from Sherlock's luminous laptop. A tea cup, tainted blue, was steaming next to the screen. His fingers tapped on the keys, marked with different letters and hyphens.

‘The Seventh Destination.’ He wrote.

He clinked and thought and scanned his memories of the day as if it were his website. But no matter what he went over, no matter what he studied, no matter what he learned from just looking at a person, John was always sub-consciously on his mind. Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade floated through from time to time, but John never left; John just stuck. And he wondered why. He always wondered why from the day he met him; in fact, it wasn’t just now that John stuck. It was always. 

_You look sad._

His eyes twitched. His fingers on the keys fell from stiff arches to grass blades in a field after the showers. A silence fell over his mind.

‘I am.’ He whispered. Even though he didn't want it to; the rain fell over like the silence around him, and the rage inside of him, and the unfairness of it all that wrapped around him like the Irish winds.


End file.
